Sight
by Ionaf
Summary: DG Post OotP. Rating subject to change. Ginny and Draco finally see each other. Like most teenagers, they don’t do much about it.
1. A Bath

Title: Sight

Disclaimer: I have homework. JK Rowling doesn't. I haven't got money off 21st century Boy Wonder. She has.

Summary: Draco and Ginny finally see each other. Yes, that seeing part will take a few chapters, but w/e. And like most teenagers, they don't do anything about it.

**X**

Mr. Draco Malfoy was different this afternoon; he barely blinked at the platters of food in front of him at lunch. He blinked at his soggy chicken sandwich, his gray eyes monotone and empty. Exhaling, he pushed his plate away and reached for his goblet and poured in lukewarm pumpkin juice. Taking a sip, he decided for a walk as soon as he could get out of the Great Hall.

He slipped along the wet hall with a pack of Ravenclaw third-years and, wrapping his long gray scarf around his neck, he walked down to the lakeside where Potter, Weasley and Granger sat poring textbooks and several cliques of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw girls sat soaking sun while watching Michael Corner and his gang of friends tempt the giant squid into a cookie.

Draco walked along the jagged shore away from students. He sat very near the edge and dipped his hand in the cool water, rotating it and making waves.

Making waves. Draco insisted on making waves at Hogwarts, to be famous, infamous, but somebody other than just Lucius Malfoy's son. Now in his sixth year, he felt somewhat bored by everything around him, his escaped father, his planned revenge on Potter and his freak friends, his mother, his life, his grades. Draco had earned a not all too impressive nine Outstanding O.W.L.s, for the Malfoys at the very most. Potions and Defense against the Dark Arts were his best subjects, owing to the favors of Professor Umbridge. Draco had not an inkling about what he would do after Hogwarts; he had grown rather attached to it over the years.

He had stopped rotating his hand in the water; small fish were feasting on the seaweed tangled in his hand. He watched a moment, engrossed until he decided he needed to keep his lunch down for the afternoon classes; Hogwarts students were allowed a forty-five minute break after lunch to mill about the library or the grounds. It was a beautiful early afternoon in February, the entire Great Hall as drenched in white light that morning, illuminating Draco's silvery hair and blinding his end of the table. Draco remembered laughing at Crabbe and Goyle wolfing down waffles slathered in syrup. _The Slytherins, _Draco thought, _go up with the sun and disappear with it at sunset_.

The students were slowly getting up from their break and trudging inside while brushing bits of grass from their robes. Draco calculated his time—it would take a minute to take out a cigarette, light it, and put his wand away. Then, it would take five minutes to take a shortcut and still make it in time for Herbology.

He heeded himself and drew a cigarette from his pocket and lit it with his wand. Inhaling, exhaling, he walked, a cloud of gray smoke trailing in his wake.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a small, red-headed figure running from the lake. Weasley's wee weasel was going to be late for class. And it looked like it was going to rain.

X

"Mr. Malfoy, if you could pass the Essence of Gorgon's Hair up to the front, please," drawled Professor Snape during Double Potions. Professor Snape was discussing the use of the Essence of Gorgon's Hair to the class, how the unusual scales could be ground into powder and used as a key (other than the most key ingredient) component in the Mandrake Restorative Potion.

They were to brew a Mandrake Restorative Potion this class, but Draco doubted whether they would—the bell signal to end afternoon classes rang and Draco sprinted past Granger and hurled, "That a forest fire in your hair, Granger? Wait, it's just Weasel," leaving no one in shock. Draco sprinted down to the dungeons to get to the baths first.

As a Prefect, Draco Malfoy had enjoyed the delights of the Prefects' bathroom. Draco, awaiting Head Boy-ship, returned to the Slytherin showers to find them full. Obviously, being down in the dungeons did not help, even if the Slytherin baths were on the second floor. He retreated to his dormitory—and had a sudden idea.

Turning on his heel, he ran upstairs to the fifth floor, turned at Boris the Bewildered and muttered, "Citrus showers". The door unlocked and Draco slipped inside, a pair of freshly laundered trousers and sweater hanging from the crook of his arm. Draco set his clothes and wand on the side of the bath and turned on the bejeweled taps to a hot bath, though careful of the amethyst-set taps; perfumed bath soap gushed from them. He did not need any present Prefects sniffing around to find a non-prefect reeking purply goodness at dinner. Undressed, he dived into the hot water and swum a few laps before scrubbing and then after, he floated listlessly around, supported by the thick, balloon-like foam and blowing little bits of foam as he wished. He had forgotten girl Prefects began their baths at seven.

X

Outside, a girl with flaming-red hair was cursing the statue of Boris the Bewildered. The door would not let her in, even when she kicked the door furiously and shouted the password into the empty corridor, her mud-splattered Quidditch robes flinging mud everywhere. Her voice bounced off the walls, as the light bounced off her mud-splattered Prefect badge pinned to the chest of her robes.

Inside the bath, Draco heard a muffled voice from outside the bath, a _girl's_ voice. He glanced at his watch and saw it was a quarter-past seven. Yelping, he launched himself out of the bath and scrambled into his clothes while the bath drained. Shaking water droplets from his eyes, he pondered how he was going to get out of there.

He thought of just leaving, or pretending to be a Prefect, but each possible escape plan was more feeble and far-fetched than the last. He listened. The voice had shut up. Draco crept up to the door and steadily unlocked it. Peering straightforward, he sprinted out—

"AHA!"

Draco stopped dead in his tracks and pivoted to face a head of fire—it was Ginny Weasley, brandishing her wand at him.

"Out with it, Malfoy! What were you doing in there? Not bathing, I hope? Or I'd have to—"

Ginny was cut short by Draco clapping a hand over her mouth; Mrs. Norris was creeping up the corridor, stopping about ten yards away from them to lick her paw. Draco led a kicking Ginny into the bath through the ajar door. Once inside, he slammed the door shut and—

"OW! What the bloody hell have I done?" said Draco, holding his bitten hand.

Ginny looked murderous, her bright brown eyes ablaze. She circled him, ticking off the offenses.

"For one thing, Malfoy, you've broken into and used the Prefect's Bath with the lack of being a Prefect, two, you've dragged me in here without reason, and thirdly, you're a git," she finished, pulling out her wand and trying to keep her clothes from falling onto the floor. She dumped her robes onto a chair and drew up, her long hair falling back and for a moment Draco actually thought she looked quite pretty, if it wasn't for her family being the gits they were.

"I only brought you in here, _Weasel_, because Filch's cat was lurking in the corner and we would've both been dead with you and your bloody Quidditch robes all mucked up with mud dripping the floor," Draco spat, opening the door and striding out.

Author's Notes: Yes, it's been awhile, ne? Well, I'm hoping you lot would give this a try; I've grown up some more. And don't bother over my other stuff (_The Garden Ball_, _The Rock Named Pariah_) because I've vowed to write sensible (well, how sensible can fanfics get?)—which means I'll be in line with the books, hopefully. I'm gonna update _Mine to Protect_ one day when the second chapter's done. Thanks for reading!


	2. Quidditch

Smoking, Draco sat on the lake edge and rotated his wand in the cool water. Bubbles issued from the tip of the wand, delighting the small fish.

He loved to smoke; his father smoked and Draco loved his father. As a child, he watched the curls of smoke dancing upward to a better place then a bit of leaf in a paper as his father read the evening paper.

This summer, he swiped a long, thin cigarette from his father's cigarette box and had a go while on his broom. It was a wonderful

feeling, not being alone in the sky. The cigarette comforted him, gave him a friend. Draco now understood his father's need for a smoke—he was lonely; and Narcissa, Draco's mother, was not one for the serious talks of men. Draco took a deep drag, exhaled, and took another, shorter drag. It was November, and the cold was setting in quite comfortably on trees and in the castle; an epidemic of flu had broken out, keeping Madam Pomfrey busy.

The last of his cigarette burned out and Draco cast it into the lake. He had Quidditch practice.

In the changing rooms, Draco pulled on his green robes and thick dragonhide mittens to protect him from the snitch; he had received some

nasty cuts several inches long from the snitch's wings. Outside, Draco found his team members horsing around fifteen feet off the ground; he kicked

and sped toward them on his broom. He whistled.

"Right then, we'll start with Chasers and Beaters—Beaters, throw the Quaffle from all angles and the Chasers do what you do best," shouted

Draco. He paused. He knew he had forgotten something…

"NO BATS!" he shouted as the beaters began speeding upward toward the Chasers. Personally, the bats were great but irrelevant practice;

Draco wanted to beat Gryffindor and Scarhead best he can—evil can win righteously. Dirty work and sleuthing is for the criminal.

As the rest of the team practiced, Draco drew defense tactics and ways to best outmaneuver Gryffindor. Deep into planning which side

Slytherin should start on (in coordination with the wind), Draco barely felt the tap on his shoulder. The fingers tapped more urgently. Draco turned to

see Crabbe holding his broom and gazing blankly at the arrows and dots Draco had drawn on the parchment.

"Goyle's taken a Quaffle to the stomach. He needs Madam Pomfrey," said Crabbe. He pointed to a lame Goyle supported by two Chasers.

Draco cursed inside. _How in Merlin did he get hit in the stomach? He's a damn Beater! Doesn't he block things?_ He met the trio a little ways from the

door.

"_Mobilicorpus_," said Draco, waving Goyle out of the pitch. The Chasers and Crabbe followed. Draco strode back to the trunk, retrieved the

Quaffle and bats and flew back to the school. On his way back, Draco spotted the Ravenclaw team walking down to the pitch and stopped in midair—

_they__ were playing Ravenclaw Saturday and he'd prepared for Gryffindor. Blast!_

Cursing, he shot back to the castle in a streak of silver.

Author's Notes: Rather short, ne? Yes, Draco is a smoker. My father said he used to smoke because he was lonely, and the cigarette gave him warmth…I think it's that way with Draco and Lucius. I might take a break after this chapter to sort out the storyline. Criticism is appreciated—it's my first year of high school and it's quite stressful, so my writing's not so great.


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